


all delighted people raise their hands

by futile_devices



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, and the people bowed and prayed, and what difference does it make?, creating a new relationship tag, i really gotta know what to put in tags and not just my random mumblings, just wanted to juxtapose their relationships really, not a real narrative, not even proper sentences im just thinking here, oh i love you a lot. i love you from the top of my heart, one man apologizes, sufjan stevens is just the zelgius mood and you cannot convince me otherwise, takes place in a vague feh universe (because levail and seph deserve to be in), theres gonna be more i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 09:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17321957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futile_devices/pseuds/futile_devices
Summary: ‘you were never anything less than i thought you were.’ he is assured with a whispered conviction, as silent as his own, but a greater warmth in eyes. of hope. of devotion. of a silent love that could never be spoken but in the movement of his hands and lingering gazes.//‘zelgius, forgive yourself before you beg for mine.’ it is not an order. a plea. a wish as deep as the sea.[musing on how zelgius believes levail and lehran view him. of burdens and pressures]





	all delighted people raise their hands

**// _And I took you by the sleeve, no other reason than to be your leading man//_**

 

golden laurels crown him in naught other than the sun’s quiet beams, falling gently upon the two with so many words between them. worth and deserving, what should have been said and all those lies and surround them, that become them even if they have cast aside crimson armor in this embrace of death. dying breaths that are universes apart, but in longing for _more time_. oh if they both only had more time beside their suns and dawns and falling feathers. time together. of lifetimes beyond this war that they are only strung along, little pawns upon a grand board, moved by deft fingers, even if one piece is held with a softer grip than the other. even if that other knew, and never spoke of it, found his throat mute to the truth that could have saved the other. given the other that life so deserved, a life and not death, to enjoy all that the world had to offer beyond that other. but the other would never wish for that.

and that is why, so silently, with a newly presented vulnerability that the other had never seen before except for in the golden light of a camp’s fire after all pretenses waned away and the general was only a man in the presence of another, his eyes plead for something more, tired and sunken, as if even now the world rests upon him. “ _i am sorry_ ” the general speaks, barely leaving him, as if a whisper from the very wind (and that would never suit a man such as himself; one who steps with the gravity of steel and is none other than an empire’s greatest. something so light, weightless, could never be of a man burdened by leaded armor). “ _i am sorry for what i could not have done for you.”_

an identity forged from the very heath of this other’s heart. of ideals that the general could only wish to embody. what the other sees in him, constellations upon his skin, the endless earth in his eyes, he knows. a hero, a knight, whose very movement could transfix the globe upon his purpose (and a purpose that is just, and honorable. no allotment for selfish or licentious desires. the greater good. and the other can believe in such a lofty ideal as that just for the simple words of this man). glory in naught other but the bounding sweeps of his blade. a blade that could never pierce falsely or be held for unjust causes. “ _i am sorry that i could not be who you believed me to be”_ deeply in his heart, though the man knows it is a worthless venture, needless wishing, but he can confess in the moon’s inconsistent light that he would be that man if he could. if all of him _could_ speak in glory’s bold tongue, _could_ look upon the world with the determination to reform the vices that control creation’s hearts, _could_ allow himself to ever find brighter days in the sky of someone else. but the man cannot. “ _levail, i am sorry.”_ lowered tone and a lowered head. shame that is inherent. that he knows so well.

and what difference does that make to either of them. the general and his second? 

“ _you were never anything less than i thought you were.”_ he is assured with a whispered conviction, as silent as his own, but a greater warmth in eyes. of hope. of devotion. of a silent love that could never be spoken but in the movement of his hands and lingering gazes.

a quiet breath. a prayer. _“is that enough?”_ so little, to be given so much.

 

**_//And you can see through my mistakes; Oh, I’ll tell it from the top of my heart//_ **

 

moonlight caresses the one and his other, silver slipping through ebony wings and unspoken ones, haunting shadows falling under their shared quarter. a space for only both of them, yet in the broad the night, not hidden between winding spires or locked doors. the brushing of fingers without any other explanation but the air between them and their shared sorrow. that loneliness that bound them, the ineffable emotion of never belonging. they are together. they belong. it is only the shade that comforts them, draws them from behind their shields and years of suffering to bear it all in the weakness and softness of flesh. the world never allowed joys of the mortal kind, not of them, branded with misdeeds forgotten to all but them. children never raised, family never loved. faults that faultless burden themselves with shame and silent wishes of reprieve.

but the man knows he would never deserve it. if he is selfish, then he will hold a hand, dearly, as if it is the very universe, but this man, with woeful dreams, has laid all of himself upon a singular altar, worship for one deity and one alone. but this man, with sorrowful wishes, has named himself guilty for the crimes the world has committed against him without resistance or second guesses. “ _forgive me, my lord._ ” a moonbeam passes between and through his shaking voice as if to solidify it, crafting its form and cadence and gives to other. illuminating all that is meant to be said in four quiet words, casting light into the shadows that only to the other have been revealed to. of a childhood hidden and ostracized, a mother’s cold gaze and silent siblings. of strength that became his life’s only importance, of lies and a child escaping with heavy breaths. of terror and armor to ensure that his eyes will never meet disgust. “ _for everything that i am.”_ from the very top of his heart, weight of loathing and isolation and emptiness, but he is sorry for being born, for being a weed upon his family’s garden, for all that he has killed, and that he wields blades that could never be his. _“please. forgive me.”_ the man breaks underneath the world and its expectations. he tried his best and tried in vain.

a statue cracking, marble’s fault lines growing between his soul, into the depths of all that he has hidden for a lifetime and he cannot pretend anymore. not when a hand is placed upon his shoulder, and a whisper is lifted, but no more. not when his veins flow with humiliation that he has ingrained in his whole being. _“i cannot.”_ is given to him, upon the very same moonbeam and it scatters within him, a soul tesselating with a silent glow. “ _there is nothing for me to forgive.”_ and the man wishes to scream as he crumbles, shards of stone falling to the floor. for what is penitence blamed for? but that would be foolish. self important, and a contrite man could never speak against the grace that he seeks with desperation. yet there is so much of him that is wrong, sinful, against all that had been deemed good by the world’s first dawn.

but what difference does that make, to the man and his lord, when the world is a mess?

“ _zelgius, forgive yourself before you beg for mine_.” it is not an order. a plea. a wish as deep as the sea.

the man is silent in his unstable ground. _“do you think that would be enough?_ ”


End file.
